


What Words Can’t Heal

by buttercups3



Series: May Your Days be Porny and Bright [5]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M, Feels, I'll keep steering this ship as if it's loaded with passengers, Mayhem makes me swoon, Prompt Fill, conventional sex!, extended "monster in our yard" scene, spoilers for S2E06, the blanket's back
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 09:56:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1079594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead of Rachel departing after chastising Miles about "feeding the monster, Bass," sex happens. (Yay!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Words Can’t Heal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [valantha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/valantha/gifts).



> Prompter: Valantha
> 
> Prompt: Rachel and Miles: Post-Monroe's arrival in Willoughby fight and make-up sex (with the Blankey)
> 
> (The first 2.5 lines are taken from the episode.)

“Because if he doesn’t do it…I’m gonna have to.” There, Miles has said it. The fact that he’s laid bare perhaps the worst part of himself to her, well, it means something. Not something she wants to hear though.

“I think you’re full of crap.”

She starts for the door, and in that moment, he turns over the rawness of her covert admission: _Am I supposed to be impressed that he can torture people?  
_

“Rachel, stop!” he blurts - has flown to the door to hold it shut. _Fuck it_ – he has no idea what to say now. “I’m not choosing him over you.”

“Oh really? So you can just have us both? _Care_ about us both? The man who imprisoned me all those years, who sicked his filthy dog on me,” her voices cracks open.

It’s too awful to watch her bear alone, so he pulls her straight into his arms. She struggles, but of course, he’s stronger, can win at this if nothing else. Finally, she lets her face rest against his chest, but her hands are still tight in fists. He feels wetness spread through the linen of his shirt.

“You still love him,” comes her muffled voice.

“I hate him!” He snarls at the mere idea of Bass intruding upon this fragile thing he and Rachel are bleeding to build. But Miles knows that hating Bass is not the entire truth. Amazing how one person can hold two entirely contradictory emotions at the same time. “I can _never_ forgive him for what he did to you…to our family. But fuck, Rachel, I can’t forgive myself either. I certainly don’t deserve it. I wish you’d just left me in Andover’s hole to die. I wish Bass had never come.”

She shakes her head in evident vexation, glaring up at him with those wise, oceany eyes that look like they've been around since before Pangaea cracked apart. “I told you why I saved you. I _need_ you. So how can you do this to me?” 

“I…I don’t know.” It’s unsatisfying but at least…honest? And fuck, his wounded hand throbs so intensely, he feels like he could pass out. Moving those bodies with Bass, cleaning up their mess. It took its toll. Miles swallows to refocus; he knows how to beat pain from years of practice. It’s mental. He runs the back of his good hand down the smooth skin of Rachel's cheek. “I’m sorry I’m hurting you.”

“Stop then.”

“I…”

“At least admit it: _You_ need him. This isn’t about the Patriots. You missed him.”

Miles retreats to his bed, plunking onto the hard mattress and spreading his hands out on the coarse blanket. He’s suddenly so tired he has to convince himself to breathe. He’s not even thinking about how to answer her question…if it was even a question.

“He brings out the worst in you, Miles.”

If only that were the problem. But no, Bass is just a mirror.

Miles unclicks his sword belt and clatters his weapons aside, settling back for a lengthy pity party. He throws his arms over his eyes to block out the sorrow, assuming she’ll just leave.

After a while, when he is certain that she’s gone, he flexes his wounded hand in front of his face and whispers, “Ow.” He almost laughs, it hurts so much more than that stupid word can convey. To his shock, the bed sinks in next to him. She’s still here. He instantly regrets showing weakness.

“You need to stop using it, Miles. Let me see.” Her voice is kinder, as she closes her warm fingers around his wrist.

“I’m fine.”

“Your body’s been through a lot, and you’ve barely stopped to rest.”

God, it feels good to be cared for. The hairs on his arm practically stand on end in pleasure. He could cry; _so fucking often_ he could cry around this woman. So traitorously do his eyes want to leak that he just squeezes them shut.

“Am I hurting you?” she asks, replacing his hand on his chest.

He shakes his head. Childish as it is, he can’t open his eyes to look at her. She’ll see the emotion burning there. Finally, he turns right into her face and cracks just one. Her eyelids are squeezed together, adorably crinkling at the corners, her eyelashes thick and pretty. Unable to resist he gently kisses her on the nose, and then, he runs his thumb over the delicate pink ripple of her lips.

She looks at him now, sad and resigned, and reaches down to the hem of her shirt to pull it off. Rachel never ceases to surprise him. And he certainly doesn’t want to let her down, now of all times.

Quickly, he strips himself and her until they are skin on skin, him lowering down on top of her, his necklace dangling down to her breasts. Every inch of her is inviting and fragrant.

Miles buries his face in her neck, tasting, then trails his lips down the seam of her ribs, pausing to nuzzle the extraordinary softness of her left breast. With his knees, he spreads her legs apart, the delicate skin of his balls objecting to the scratchy blanket beneath them. He just needs to be in her -  hopes she feels the same urgency. Licking his fingers, he reaches down to check. She’s getting there but could use some help, so he douses his hand and wets his length before pushing in.

“Oh, Rachel,” he allows himself, because he wants her to know how this feels, being buried in the woman you’ve been deprived of your whole adult life, when all you’ve wanted is her. He works her slowly, passionately, his wounded hand planted on the bed, the left cupping her cheek, sliding downward to knead her breasts. _God. Fuck._ He needs this. How did he ever live without it?

She’s silent, but her mouth is open, her face caught in that beautiful ambiguity of pleasure-pain reserved for sex.

Fuck, she's gorgeous. And she’s so soft inside and warm and comforting like being ensconced in your favorite comforter but better - indescribable. He thrusts turbulently now, reaching down to zealously finger her clit.

“Oh, oh, oh!” she begins seizing.

“Uh,” he revels in her building high. Forcing her to bow to it, his whole left arm tenses.

“Yes? Yes?” It sounds like a question. Just a little more then…he slams into the cushion of her body, his fingers against her practically a blur, and she comes. They moan together – her in rapture, him at the mere idea of her getting off on him, around him. 

He collapses a little on her to taste her lips, kisses her chin, her earlobe, laughs because she’s laughing. And after a brief affectionate lull, he starts pounding again, close already, because he’s letting himself go. He’s so tired of holding on.

“Oh,” he gasps, every muscle in his abdomen coiling in on itself as if in preparation for an enormous sneeze. She shoots him a filthy, delighted look, and he probably moans again. He doesn’t even fucking know anymore. A few more plunges, and he’s got to pull out, jacking himself so hard his weak left hand can barely sustain it. She’s rapt and smiling. He throws his head back, and his muscles give in to excessive, all-encompassing relief.

He’s sort of laughing and moaning and lets his face fall between her breasts, kissing the skin there - salty and viscous-wet from his own release.

She’s got her fingers threaded through his sweaty hair, as he shivers his aftershocks.

They are tragic - Rachel and Miles - and some of their past together is very ugly. But what they can’t say, what they can’t overcome with words, their skin does.


End file.
